When the Going Was Good

by Evelyn Waugh

  There are two inns in Harar, boasting the names of Lion d’Or and Bellevue; both universally condemned as unsuitable for European habitation. Any doubt I might have had about which to patronize was resolved, as soon as we turned into the main street, by a stout little man in a black skull-cap, who threw himself at my bridle and led me to the Lion d’Or. During my brief visit I became attached to this man. He was an Armenian of rare character, named Bergebedgian; he spoke a queer kind of French with remarkable volubility, and I found great delight in all his opinions; I do not think I have ever met a more tolerant man; he had no prejudice or scruples of race, creed, or morals of any kind whatever; there were in his mind none of those opaque patches of principle; it was a single translucent pool of placid doubt; whatever splashes of precept had disturbed its surface from time to time had left no ripple; reflexions flitted to and fro and left it unchanged.

  Unfortunately his hotel was less admirable. Most of his business was done in the bar, where he sold great quantities of a colourless and highly inflammatory spirit distilled by a fellow countryman of his and labelled, capriciously, ‘Very Olde Scotts Whiskey’, ‘Fine Champayne’, or ‘Hollands Gin’ as the taste of his clients dictated. Next to the bar was a little dining-room where two or three regular customers (also fellow countrymen) took their greasy and pungent meals. The bedrooms were built round a little courtyard, where some pathetic survivals of a garden were discernible amid the heaps of kitchen refuse with which it was littered. This building had formerly been the town house of an Abyssinian official. It was rarely that anyone came to stay; usually not more than one in any three weeks, he said; but, as it happened, there was a second guest at that moment, a French clerk on business from the Banque d’Indo-Chine at Djibouti. I lunched with this young man, who was a punctilious, mannerly person; the hot wind had chapped his lips so that he was unable to smile – an affliction which made him seem a little menacing in light conversation. It was he who first put into my head the deplorable notion of returning to Europe across the Congo by the west coast. The proprietor waited on us in person, and made it hard to escape the forbidding dishes; we both felt moderately ill after every meal.

  That afternoon I went for a walk round the town and saw that a large part of it was in decay. The most prominent buildings were the modern Government House, the French hospital, Mohammed Ali’s offices, a Capuchin mission cathedral, and an ancient mosque with two whitewashed minarets; the rest of the place was made up of a bunch of small shops, a few Armenian, Greek, and Indian stores, single-roomed dwelling-houses, mostly standing back behind grubby little yards, and numerous tedj houses, combined brothels and public houses which advertise themselves with a red cross over the door – a traditional sign which caused some misunderstanding when the Swedish medical mission first established itself in the country.

  The appearance of the buildings and the people was wholly foreign to Abyssinia; a difference which was emphasized on this particular afternoon by the fact that all the Abyssinians were indoors at a party at Government House, so that the streets were peopled almost exclusively by turbaned Harari. The beauty of the women was dazzling – far exceeding anything I had expected. The native women at Addis Ababa had been far from attractive; their faces had been plump and smug, their hair unbecomingly heaped up in a black, fuzzy mass, glittering with melted butter, their figures swollen grotesquely with a surfeit of petticoats. The women of Harar are slender and very upright; they carry themselves with all the grace of the Somalis, but, instead of their monkey-like faces and sooty complexions, they had golden-brown skins and features of the utmost fineness. Moreover, there was a delicacy about their clothes and ornaments which the Somalis entirely lacked; their hair was plaited into innumerable tight little ropes and covered with bright silk shawls; they wore long trousers and silk shawls wound under their arms, leaving their shoulders bare. Most of them had bright gold ornaments. Burton admits their beauty, but condemns their voices as harsh and outstandingly displeasing. I cannot conceive what prompted this statement; indeed, compared with those of Arab women, they seemed soft and sweet. (No sound made by mankind is quite so painful as the voices of two Arab women at variance.) An alliance might be formed with any of these exquisite people, the Armenian informed me later, for four thalers a month and board. That it was possible that the parents might expect more in the case of a foreigner. This sum, however, covered the girl’s services in the house, so that it was a perfectly sound investment if I intended making a stay of any length in the town. I explained that I was only there for three days. In that case, he said, it was obviously more convenient to confine myself to married women. There were certain preliminary formalities to be gone through with an unmarried girl which cost time and money.

  I visited the leper settlement; a little collection of tukals outside the walls, in the charge of a French priest. Four or five sleep in each hut, an arrangement which the old priest explained in what seems to me a very terrible phrase, ‘You understand, monsieur, that it takes several lepers to make one man.’

  I went to the cathedral and there met the Bishop of Harar, the famous Monsignor Jerome, of whom I had heard many reports in Addis Ababa. He has been in the country for forty-eight years, suffering, at first, every kind of discouragement and persecution, and attaining, towards the middle of his career, a position of great influence at Court. He acted as Tafari’s tutor, and many people attributed to him, often in harsh terms, the Emperor’s outstanding skill as a political tactician. Lately, as his pupil’s ambitions have become realized, the bishop’s advice has been less devotedly canvassed. Indeed, it is doubtful whether it would still be of great value, for he is a very old man now and his mind is losing something of its former grasp of public affairs.

  It is his practice to greet all visitors to his church, but I did not know this at the time and was greatly startled when he suddenly swooped in upon me. He was tall and emaciated, like an El Greco saint, with very long white hair and beard, great roving eyes, and a nervous, almost ecstatic smile; he advanced at a kind of shuffling jog-trot, fluttering his hands and uttering little moans. After we had been round the church, which was shabby and unremarkable enough, he invited me into his divan to talk. I steered the conversation as delicately as I could from church expenses to Arthur Rimbaud. At first we were at cross purposes because the bishop, being a little deaf, mistook my ‘poète’ for ‘prêtre’, and inflexibly maintained that no Father Rimbaud had ever, to his knowledge, ministered in Abyssinia. Later this difficulty was cleared up, and the bishop, turning the name over in his mind, remembered that he had, in fact, known Rimbaud quite well; a young man with a beard, who was in some trouble with his leg; a very serious man who did not go out much; he was always worried about business; not a good Catholic, though he had died at peace with the Church, the bishop understood, at Marseilles. He used to live with a native woman in a little house, now demolished, in the square; he had no children; probably the woman was still alive; she was not a native of Harar, and after Rimbaud’s death she had gone back to her own people in Tigre … a very, very serious young man, the bishop repeated. He seemed to find this epithet the most satisfactory – very serious and sad.

  It was rather a disappointing interview. All the way to Harar I had nurtured the hope of finding something new about Rimbaud, perhaps even to encounter a half-caste son keeping a shop in some back street. The only significant thing I learned from the bishop was that, living in Harar, surrounded by so many radiant women, he should have chosen a mate from the stolid people of Tigre – a gross and perverse preference.

  That evening, at about six o’clock, Mr Bergebedgian suggested that we might go to the Abyssinian party which had now finished luncheon and was settling down to an evening’s music at Government House. He himself was an indispensable guest, as he had promised the loan of an Aladdin lamp, without which they would be left in complete darkness. Accordingly, we set out and were received with great warmth by the acting governor. A considerable sum had been granted to the m
unicipality to be spent on rejoicings for the coronation, an object which was rightly interpreted as meaning a series of parties. They had been going on for a fortnight and would continue until the dedejmatch returned from the capital. As a symbol of the origin of the feast, a kind of altar had been built, at one end of the room, on which stood a large photograph of Tafari surrounded by flowers. About fifty Abyssinians in white chammas sat round on the floor, already fairly drunk. Green chairs of the kind one finds in public parks were set for us at a velvet-covered round table. The acting governor sat with us and poured out extravagant glasses of whisky. Slaves trotted about among the other guests, distributing bottles of German beer. With the appearance of our lamp the entertainment began. An orchestra emerged, furnished with three single-stringed fiddles. The singer was an Abyssinian woman of startling girth. She sang in a harsh voice, panting for breath between each line, an immensely long ballad of patriotic sentiment. The name Haile Selassie recurred with great regularity. No one paid any more attention than they would have at a musical party in Europe, but she sang on cheerfully, through the buzz of conversation, with an expression of settled amiability. When a gatecrasher was detected and expelled with some disorder, she merely turned round and watched the proceedings, still singing lustily. At the end of her song she was given some beer and many friendly smacks on the behind. The whisky was reserved for us and for a few favoured guests; the host singled these out, called for their glasses, and poured it into their beer from the bottle on the table.

  The second song was a great deal longer than the first; it was of the kind, popular in European cabarets, which introduces references to members of the audience. Each name was greeted with cheers and a good deal of boisterous back-smacking. The host asked our names and repeated them in her ear, but they came out so distorted, if they came out at all, as to be wholly unrecognizable. After about two hours, Mr Bergebedgian said he must return to the inn and see to the dinner. This was the signal for a general movement; three or four notables were invited to the table, wine-glasses were produced, a dish of sponge fingers, and finally a bottle of champagne. We drank each other’s health, making graceful unintelligible little speeches in our own languages. Then, after much handshaking, we returned to the inn, leaving our Aladdin lamp at the party.

  After a profoundly indigestible dinner, Mr Bergebedgian joined us – the unsmiling clerk and myself – in a glass of a disturbing liqueur labelled ‘Koniak’. Presently he said, would we like to go to another party? There was a wedding in the town. This time our expedition was attended with grave precautions. First, Mr Bergebedgian buckled on bandolier and revolver-holster; then he went to the cash-desk and produced a heavy automatic pistol, charged the magazine, and tucked it into place; then he reached under the bar and drew out four or five wooden clubs, which he dealt out to his servants; the bank-clerk showed a revolver, I my sword stick; he nodded approval. It was all very much like Rat’s preparation for the attack on Toad Hall. Then he barred up the house, a process involving innumerable bolts and padlocks. At last, attended by three servants with staves and a storm lantern, we set out. Things were safer at Harar than they used to be, he explained, but it was wiser to take no risks. As we emerged into the street, a hyaena flashed red eyes at us and scuttled off. I do not know how hyaenas have got their reputation for laughing. Abyssinia is full of them; they come into the towns at night scavenging and performing the less valuable service of nosing up corpses in the cemeteries; they used to bay all round the hotel at Addis Ababa, and the next night, which I spent in a tent in the Plowmans’ garden, was disturbed by a small pack of them crunching bones within a few yards of my bed, but not once did I hear anything approaching a laugh.

  The streets were pitch black – not a lighted window showed anywhere – and, except for hyaenas, dogs, and cats fighting over the refuse, totally deserted. Our way led down a narrow passage, between high, crumbling walls, which was sometimes graded in steps and sometimes sloped steeply inwards to a dry gutter. Our first stop was at the house of a Greek grocer. We beat on the shutters, behind which a crack of light was immediately extinguished. Mr Bergebedgian called his name, and presently a little peep opened and a pair of eyes appeared. Some civilities were exchanged, and then, after much drawing of bolts, we were admitted. The grocer offered us ‘koniak’ and cigarettes. Mr Bergebedgian explained that we wanted him to accompany us to the party. He refused, explaining that he had to make up his books. Mr Bergebedgian, accordingly, borrowed some small silver (a loan which, I observed, was duly noted in the accounts) and we took our leave. More black, empty alleys. Suddenly a policeman rocketed up from the gutter where he had been taking a rest, and challenged us with some ferocity. Mr Bergebedgian replied with a mock flourish of his revolver; some light exchange of chaff and back-chat followed, in the course of which the policeman decided to join the party. After a few minutes we found another policeman, huddled in his blanket on the counter of a deserted greengrocer’s stall; they shook him awake and brought him along with us. At last we reached a small courtyard, beyond which, from a lighted door, came the sound of singing.

  No doubt we looked rather a formidable gang as we stalked in bristling with weapons, but it was probably the sight of the two policemen which caused most alarm. Anyway, whatever the reason, wild panic followed our entry. There was only one door, through which we had come, and a stream of Harari girls dashed past us, jostling, stumbling, and squealing; others cowered away under their shawls or attempted to climb the steps which led to a little loft. Mr Bergebedgian repeatedly explained our pacific intentions, but it was some time before confidence was restored. Then a young man appeared with chairs for us and the dance was resumed.

  The house consisted of a single room with a gallery full of coffee sacks at one end. A large stove, built of clay and rubble, stood under the ladder, and two or three earthenware jars and pots lay on and around it. Opposite the door the floor was raised in a carpeted dais. The few men of the party lounged round the door; the girls squatted together on the dais; the dance took place in the well of the floor to the music of the girls’ singing, and the beating of hand drums. It was a pretty scene, lit by a single oil-lamp; the walls were decorated with coloured wickerwork plates; a brazier of charcoal and incense stood in one corner; a wicker dish of sweets was passed from one delicate henna-stained hand to another among the girls on the dais.

  The dance was of the simplest kind. One girl and two men stood opposite each other; the girl wore a shawl on her head and the men held their chammas over the lower part of their faces. They shuffled up to each other and shuffled back; after several repetitions of this movement they crossed over, revolving as they passed each other, and repeated the figure from opposite sides. As the girl came to our end, Mr Bergebedgian pulled her shawl off. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘hasn’t she got nice hair?’ She recovered it crossly and Mr Bergebedgian began teasing her, twitching it back every time she passed. But he was a soft-hearted fellow and he desisted as soon as he realized that he was causing genuine distress.

  This was the bride’s house that we were in; a second party was in progress in another part of the town at the home of the bridegroom. We went to visit it and found it precisely similar in character, but very much larger and more splendid. Clearly the girl had made a good match. These parties are kept up every night for a week before the wedding; the bride’s friends and relations in her home, the bridegroom’s in his. They do not mix until the actual wedding-day. For some reason which I could not fathom they had lately come under ban of the law; hence the consternation at our arrival. We stayed for about an hour and then returned to the hotel. The policemen came in with us and hung about until they were given a tumblerful each of neat spirit. Sleep was difficult that night, for the pillows were hard as boards, and through the windows, devoid of glass and shutters, came the incessant barking of dogs and hyaenas and the occasional wailing of horns of the town guard.

  Next morning the bank-clerk rode away and Mr Bergebedgian took me for a walk in the t
own. He was a remarkable guide. We went into the shops of all his friends and drank delicious coffee and smoked cigarettes; he seemed to have small financial transactions with all of them, paying out a thaler here, receiving another there. We went into the law-courts, where we saw a magistrate trying a case about real property; both litigants and all the witnesses were in chains; the plaintiff was a Galla who pleaded his own cause through an interpreter. He became so eager about his wrongs that the interpreter was unable to keep up with him, and after repeated admonishments left him to finish his case in his own tongue. Behind the court was a lion in a wooden cage so small that he could barely move in it, so foul that the air of the whole yard was insupportable. We saw the great hall used for the raw-beef banquets. A group of slave-boys were being instructed in squad drill by an older boy with a stick. The commands were recognizably of English origin – presumably imported by some old soldier from the K.A.R. We went into the prison, a place of frightful filth, comparable only to the lion’s cage. Mr Bergebedgian, in whose character there was a marked strain of timidity, was very reluctant to enter, saying that three or four deaths occurred there every week from typhus; a flea from any one of the prisoners would kill us both. That evening in my bath I found myself covered with flea-bites, and remembered this information with some apprehension. The cells stood round a small yard; three or four men were tethered to the wall of each cell, with chains just long enough to allow of their crawling into the open. Those who were fed by their families never left the buildings; the others were allowed to earn their keep by working in gangs on the roads. The lot of the more neglected seemed by far preferable. Most of the prisoners were there for debt, often for quite trifling sums; they remained there until they paid or, more probably, died. There were no less than three prisons in Harar. My servant got locked up one day for a breach of the sanitary regulations and I had to pay five dollars to get him out. He remarked, with some justice, how could one tell that there were any sanitary regulations in Harar? In his opinion, it was a put-up job because he was a stranger.